Written by a “special correspondent,” the piece had the ring of an amateur reporter. They used a picture of Anthony taken when he had sailed a 30 foot sloop single-handedly across the Atlantic. It was a good shot: showing the dashing grin on his handsome face and the swimming trunks revealing the heavyweight body in all its muscular glory. I had used the same shot on the dust jacket of an Anthony book and in several ads.
The news item went on to list a few of Matt's novels, stated that several of them had been made into movies.
As I finished eating and reading I became wide awake. My headache vanished. I dialed Martin Kelly, my former boss. He headed the ad agency that handled all of Longson's books. When I had him on the phone I asked, “Marty? Norm Connor here. Listen, have you any fresh dope on this Anthony mess? I need some information in a big rush.” He asked what we were going to do about it. Should he attempt to hush things up? “Stop it, Marty, how could we possibly put the lid on this? Look, do you know, or can you find me a reporter who's been out to the Anthony house? Swell, swell. That's a break. Have him phone me, fast. I need to be filled in on the facts within the next ten minutes. Now stop wasting time, Marty, and call that reporter. And thanks. Big thanks.”
Eight minutes later, after a reporter had phoned me direct from Riverside, I went back up to Long's cool office. Dropping the newspaper on his desk, I lit my pipe and sat in a plywood bucket chair. I had a practiced way of casual sitting, as if slowly falling into the chair. I said, “Seems I skipped quite a mess in the papers.”
“How
messy is the first subject on the agenda,” Long told me, pulling a thin dark cigar from a fancy tan teak humidor. He carefully nipped the end with an ancient, silver cigar-cutter, then ran his tongue around the cut end. Lighting the cigar, he puffed slowly and evenly for a few seconds, gazing at the ceiling. His cigar rituals fascinated me. I always had a feeling the anxious expression on Bill's thin face meant be expected the stinking rope to blow up at any moment.
The second his cigar was drawing smoothly, Bill placed it on an ash tray and said, “Norm, we must consider how that affects us: business-wise. Anthony has been on our lists for a number of years. I believe we have issued over a dozen of his novels. While we most certainly are not the type of house to capitalize on notoriety, the fact remains that Anthony is in the headlines and will continue to remain there for some time. And all during the trial. Much as we may dislike them, one still can't ignore facts.”
“I've just talked with a reporter out in Riverside,” I said cautiously, not getting the drift Matt Anthony wasn't that important a writer to the house—he was merely a mystery writer. “Notoriety may be an understatement. For one thing the D.A. is seeking a first degree murder indictment which—”
“Murder? That's bloody bull.”
I nodded, combing my hair with my left hand. “Perhaps, but the D.A. is calling it murder. Secondly, it seems our Matt deliberately tried to cover up the killing, pass it off as an accident. He had some kind of alibi set-up... until a county detective got a confession from him hours later. I don't know, as of now, exactly what he's confessed to, but all of this doesn't put Matt in a good light.”
“I suppose the papers will get this?”
“Of course. I didn't make any attempt to hush it up. Be impossible anyway—we don't advertise in the tabloids and this is a juicy item. And it could ruin us if such an attempt ever became known. There's another bad angle: earlier in the afternoon Matt and his wife had a drag-'em-down fight over a guest—a Prof. Henry Brown. He was recently dismissed from his college chair for taking the Fifth Amendment in one of these investigations. True, Matt was—is—one of our writers, but in no way can Longson be considered responsible for the antics of a wild joker like Anthony. My advice is for us to say nothing, keep hands off.”
Long took his time relighting his cigar before he said, “Norm, you have an admirable grasp of the situation, but unfortunately it isn't as simple as you paint it. One of our main stockholders is a frightful biddy, a nosey old ass who has a hobby of raising stupid questions over every minor expense item. I don't have to tell you, what with TV, the trade books business hasn't shown any zooming profits. While we're not losing money, still... eh... you know how it is with neurotic women with too much time on their hands. At our last meeting she made an issue of unrealized advances to our authors; a relatively small sum, under $17,000. However she picked on Matt Anthony. Claimed she'd never heard of him and he's into us for about $4,000 on a war book he never wrote.”
Long stared at his desk, as if he'd just made a deep point I nodded, as though I knew what Bill was talking about.
Putting his cigar back in the ash tray, Long said, “Norm, it occurred to me that with all this bloody publicity we might reissue one of Matt's old novels. Since we already have the plates, production costs would be low. An edition of about 20,000 copies. Naturally the success of this would depend upon the advertising campaign you work up. If it comes off, things will be considerably easier for me at the January stockholders' meeting. You see, I'm asking for a new building, Norm, a really large outlay, and I wouldn't want the project side-tracked by minor squabbles. There's also this: I happen to know Matt is busted. While I'm not trying to sound mucky or altruistic he will be desperate for money now and I have the old-fashioned idea a publishing house should stand by its writers. I'm positive my father would have seen it that way.”
“Very commendable, sir,” I said, thinking, why is he giving me a lot of old fashioned slop? Even if we sold out the 20,000 copies Matt's royalties wouldn't cover more than the four grand advance. “It will require a tightly planned ad campaign. If it looks as if we are capitalizing in any way on the... the notoriety, it might affect our textbook sales. Bill, you realize that the moment we advertise, Longson is standing side by side with Anthony.”
“Now we're at the core of the problem. It will be up to you to decide if we should advertise, and the type ads. As advertising manager the entire project will be your responsibility. In short, I want you to very thoroughly consider the consequences of the wrong kind of advertising—if wrong is the correct word. Now, it may very well turn out you decide we should forget the matter, that we should not reissue the book. In that case, I shall completely respect your judgment Norm, I'm sure you know how much I hate pressuring people. Although the trial probably won't start for months, I've checked with our printers. They'll have an open press run on the 19th... giving you ten days to decide whether we do the Anthony book or not. And by God, if we ever get this new building we're going to have our own presses in the basement!”
I stood up as I told him, “I understand, sir.”
Long puffed on his cigar nervously. “I know it's a gamble. As you said, if it hits the public wrong, or seems done in poor taste—the consequences can be extremely rough. Against that we must weigh the matter of appeasing our stockholders, and our new building... plus the integrity of the house in standing by an author in distress.” Bill walked around the desk and placed an arm on my shoulder. “I fully realize I'm confronting you with a hell of a decision. As I said, I want you to feel perfectly free to turn it down if you think it's too risky. However, should you decide to go through with it, you must accept full responsibility. Do we understand each other, Norm?”
“Yes, sir. Since advertising is the key, it should be my decision.” I almost added, “and I sincerely welcome the challenge,” but I knew it would sound as phony as it was. And what was the old gag about beware a boss putting his arms on your shoulders—he's only placing you in position?
Walking me toward the door, Bill asked, “Have you ever met Matt Anthony?”